


Defeated

by Espereth



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Community: asscreedkinkmeme, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:23:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Espereth/pseuds/Espereth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altaïr is captured by Robert de Sable. (Non-consensual) porn ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defeated

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted on the kinkmeme: http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1611.html?thread=8444491#cmt8444491

Altaïr drifted into awareness curled on his side but unable to move, his belly still spasming from poison.

 _That tea_ , he thought, as his stomach heaved again and he coughed up the horrid aftertaste. Altaïr had never cared much for politeness, but it had seemed imprudent to refuse the simple offer of tea from the informant in Acre. _From the traitor in Acre_ , he corrected himself, vowing to hunt the man down and kill him if he ever saw daylight again.

He struggled to clear his head. He desperately needed his wits about him, but the fog refused to lift.

 _Malik_ , he thought dismally. Malik would be furious. The Dai had ordered him to take Saïd, a mid-ranked Brother, with him to Acre. But the wounds to Altaïr's pride from his demotion were still too raw to follow orders from Malik. He had ignored the instructions, and gone by himself.

This was the result. Duped, drugged and captured. How had he been so stupid? For the first time, Altaïr entertained the idea that Al Mualim had been right to strip him of his rank. Absurdly, he found himself dreading Malik's scathing eyes and contemptuous words... If Altaïr ever saw him again.

It looked more and more unlikely with each passing hour.

To distract himself from these grim thoughts, and from the pain in his stomach, Altaïr tried to work out where he was.

He was lying on hard stone, with straw scattered across it. The air tasted of salt and smelled of raw timber. A warehouse by the docks, he decided.

Pitch darkness in all directions, and the silence of thick stone. He tried to push himself to his knees, with the aim of finding a piece of the timber he smelled. A snapped plank would make a good weapon. But when he tried to move, he found that his hands and feet would not obey him. He was bound.

Altaïr struggled with his bonds. His wrists and ankles were tied, but that seemed to be all.

Could be worse.

Eventually he managed to lurch to his knees, his head spinning, stomach churning. He retched again and wiped his mouth on his shoulder, then froze at the sound of heavy wood creaking on rusted hinges.

Light fell across his face from high above, nearly blinding him, leaving him no better off than the darkness. Then a tall frame blocked part of the light.

From Altaïr's angle, on his knees on the basement floor, the form seemed almost impossibly tall. A giant of a man, all angles and hard limbs. Altaïr's stomach sank with sickening recognition, at the unmistakeable silhouette of Robert de Sable.

***

"Assassin," said Robert de Sable, a cold smile in his voice as he descended the stone stairs to where Altaïr knelt on the straw. "I knew that you would be mine some day. But I did not think the hunt would be over so soon. How disappointing."

Altaïr said nothing. If only he could stand. He was not afraid to die, of course. But how shameful to be slain upon his knees.

When Robert reached the bottom of the stairs, Altaïr summoned moisture into his dry mouth and spat towards him. His aim was poor - the effects of poison, no doubt - but some of it found Robert's boot.

Instead of beating Altaïr for this infraction, Robert de Sable only laughed and wiped his boot in the straw. "Such spirit, Assassin. In that, at least, you do not disappoint." He loomed over Altaïr, summoning memories of the struggle at Solomon's Temple to Altaïr's mind.

As Altaïr had leaped to assassinate him, Robert deflected his blade arm effortlessly and dazed Altaïr with a punch to his jaw. Then they had grappled. Altaïr remembered his own amazement at the Templar's reach, at the sheer power in his frame. The sensation of being utterly overpowered, as Altaïr struggled to force his blade to Robert's throat, and the Templar simply smirked and held him still. The struggle had only ended when Robert threw him bodily from the room.

No-one had been able to manhandle Altaïr like that since well before he became a man. A small thrill of something - Altaïr refused to admit that it was fear - worked its way down into the pit of his stomach.

Robert smirked down at Altaïr as if he knew what he was thinking.

"Come with me, Assassin. We have unfinished business. Do we not?"

Evidently he did not expect a reply. With one hand, Robert hauled Altaïr to his feet by a fistful of the front of his robes. Altaïr's head spun as the blood drained from his head.

There was no dignified way to resist, except to co-operate as little as he could; so Altaïr went limp, making his body as awkward a weight as possible. It didn't bother Robert at all. The Templar simply hefted Altaïr up over one shoulder, and made his way back up the stairs. Altaïr wished there was something left in his stomach, so he could cough it up over Robert's mail.

What Altaïr had thought to be a warehouse turned out to be a storage room inside a fortress-like structure near Acre's great tower. Robert carried Altaïr swiftly along a battlement. As they passed a Templar guard post, Robert's men saluted him.

"Sir - do you wish us to deal with the Assassin for you?" said one, almost hopefully, but Robert ignored him, carrying his prize back to a well-appointed set of rooms inside the fortress.

"Do not make the mistake of thinking you deserve such finery as this," Robert said. Carpets decorated the floors and walls of the chamber, and a cushioned sleeping platform was strewn with blankets. "It is for my own comfort that I bring you here."

Robert flung him down onto the sleeping platform, and Altaïr's ears began to ring with sudden horror as he stared at the high vaulted walls. He realised only then why Robert had retrieved him alone, why they had come to what looked like Robert's own bedchamber, rather than a dungeon equipped with instruments of torture. Altaïr could have withstood torture; it was imprinted in every young Assassin's mind that someday he would probably have to endure it. But this was something different.

Robert drew his dagger from his belt and flipped Altaïr on to his front. He cut the ropes binding the Assassin's wrists and ankles, and then, to Altaïr's surprise, sheathed his dagger and stood back.

Altaïr had no idea why he had been given this sudden opportunity, but he did not waste it. Instead he whirled, aiming a kick to sweep Robert's knee. The Templar rolled with the kick, saving himself from a broken knee; he came to his feet in a ready stance but did not draw his dagger. Altaïr leaped into a second kick, this time at the Templar's head. Punches, even elbows or knees would be an exercise in futility against an opponent in heavy mail. Robert ducked, then as Altaïr landed, he lunged, seizing Altaïr by the front of his robes again.

Altaïr strove to break the Templar's hold but in his weakened and still-dazed state, found himself flat on his back on the floor. Robert straddled him, and again they grappled. Altaïr managed to grab Robert's dagger from its sheath, only to find both of his wrists pinned uselessly against the floor. He grunted in rage, the dagger clutched tightly, struggling to break free. To his abject humiliation, Robert smashed Altaïr's hand against the floor, breaking his hold on the dagger, then threw it aside out of reach, grinning with great amusement. From that momen Altaïr knew he had lost, but he refused to concede. On they struggled, both sweating, Altaïr's head swimming in a daze of pain and disbelief. Until, inevitably, Altaïr found himself exhausted, and it was no effort at all for Robert to lift him from the floor and throw him on his back upon the bed.

He lay gasping on the blankets with his hands over his head, forced against the soft cushions in Robert's hard grip. The Templar subdued him with his whole body, sprawling across Altaïr to anchor him to the bed with long hard limbs.

"Yes, Assassin." Robert's harsh accented voice seemed to caress the word. "You wanted that as much as I did. A second match between us. _Was he really so much stronger?_ Isn't that what you asked yourself? Was it just chance, maybe, or a moment of bad judgement, that meant I could beat you at Solomon's Temple? And now, you know it was not."

The scar on the top of Robert's sweaty scalp was pink and livid in the firelight. Altaïr wondered dizzily how he had acquired it. He was fighting for breath, unable to move at all. Robert felt him struggling to lift his wrists from the bed, and laughed, pressing him down harder. Altaïr felt Robert work a muscled thigh between his legs, pressing it against his cock, which, to his shame, had begun to stir. "There is nothing left to chance here, Assassin. I have beaten you. Say it."

A growl of disgust showed him what Altaïr thought of that, and Robert grinned harder. "Come, Assassin. Say, 'Robert de Sable has defeated me'. Say it, and I will simply throw you back into the storeroom."

"...Robert... de Sable," Altaïr whispered between ragged breaths, turning his head aside.

"I will not wait forever," Robert warned, his thigh nudging harder between Altaïr's legs, forcing itself against the cleft of his buttocks.

"Robert... de Sable... is a dog."

The Templar's body shook against Altaïr's in full laughter. "Truly, you do not disappoint," Robert told him, and bent to cover Altaïr's mouth in a smothering kiss.

Altaïr twisted his head, but as he gasped for breath, Robert thrust his tongue between his lips and kissed him with all the passion of his victory. Robert's face was damp with sweat, his mouth tasted of salt. Altaïr heard a low, despairing moan, and realised the noise came from his own throat. He opened his mouth then, willing as a lover, to let Robert press his lips against his own, only to seize the Templar's lower lip between his teeth. He bit down and tasted blood.

A hard fist slammed into his temple, dazing him, and Robert drew back to wipe his mouth, still laughing. "Ah, you please me so, Assassin. How dull it would be if you submitted to me."

There was no chance of that, Altaïr thought, even as Robert flipped him to his belly to kneel on his neck and the small of his back. The Templar had had a second blade concealed - from habit, or had he not been confident of his victory, even with Altaïr so weakened? - and in seconds he had sliced Altaïr's robes from his body, slitting them all the way down the back to bare his arse.

Altaïr's hands were free, but still he was powerless. A choking sob tore at his throat, and he turned it into a cough, gripping handfulls of the blankets on Robert's bed.

"Will you say the words, my prize?" Robert said gently, running a hand down Altaïr's exposed back and over the curve of his arse. He reached for a vial of oil from a box beside the bed, drizzled some into the hollow at the base of Altaïr's spine. "Say that I have defeated you." Robert circled a finger in the pool of oil. "Spare yourself the proof of it."

But nothing in the world could make Altaïr admit defeat, even when it was as plain as day. He said nothing, twisting his fistfulls of blanket, pressing his cheek against the cushions.

Altaïr's eyes squeezed shut as Robert used his knees to force his thighs apart. Exhaustion and despair weighed him down, as heavy as chains. The Templar pressed a kiss to one cheek of his arse, gentler now that he was sure that he had won, and parted the cheeks of Altaïr's buttocks with his fingers and thumbs. Oil slipped down over Altaïr's hole, and he shuddered.

"Such a prize," Robert said, marvelling at the sight in front of him, as Altaïr shook with dread and humiliation. "How I will enjoy you, Assassin." He drizzled more oil over his fingers, then ran them around the rim of Altaïr's quivering hole.

"I have no need to hurt you." Arousal caught Robert's voice in his throat. As if to emphasise the point, he pressed his cock between Altaïr's buttocks, rubbing his hot shaft slowly over the slick tight hole. "No," he continued, his voice rough with anticipation. "Not any more." His thick cock rubbed back and forth across Altaïr's hole, stirring repressed desire in the pit of his belly. "You must know you're not my first," Robert said, his voice low and full of desire. "Not the first of your order, either."

He pressed the tip of his cock against Altaïr's oiled hole, which had turned pink and flushed with the slow, slick contact. "But I sense that you will be my best."

Altaïr choked back a cry as Robert's oiled cock pressed against his hole, parting him. Despite Robert's soft words, the pain was acute at first. Then the Templar sank inside him with a long, low groan, throwing his hips forward against Altaïr's ass until their bodies were snug together. Altaïr felt oil, warmed from their bodies, trailing down his thighs. The initial sharp pain faded to a deep, dull throb.

Robert laid his cheek against Altaïr's throat and pulled him close. As though they were lovers. As though Robert had not had him drugged and bound so that he couldn't stand. As though he had not overpowered him, pinned Altaïr to his bed and forced himself inside him. Altaïr let out a moan - whether of pain, pleasure or simple shame, he didn't know - as Robert began to thrust, holding his hips firmly still. As had been his word, he was gentle, taking Altaïr with long, slow strokes, even drizzling more oil down the crack of Altaïr's arse to ease the deep firm thrusts, striving not to wound.

Something inside him needed this. The thought came insistently to Altaïr even as he fought the pleasure, building low in his stomach, and roused even sharper when Robert slipped an oiled palm around his waist to caress Altaïr's own stiff shaft.

It was too much - Robert's hard arms, pulling him close; the thick-muscled body at his back; the fist closing around his shaft, stroking, then pulling, firmly drawing him out; and the Templar's thick cock, slipping slowly in and out of him. As if feeling his prize's response, Robert moaned and thrust harder, faster, getting rougher as his own pleasure built inside him, but Altaïr no longer noticed the pain. Then, everything seemed to crumble. Altaïr heard himself crying out, shuddering and shaking in Robert's hands. Robert's cock began to spurt inside him, hot hard jets, and now his hole was slicked with seed as well as oil. His own cock slipped in Robert's tight fist as he thrust back against the Templar; then, somehow, he was enveloped in pleasure and shame as one, and he spilled his seed with a cry, all over Robert's oiled hand and his own twitching belly.

He slumped to the bed, and Robert's heavy weight followed, collapsing across his back. The Templar shook with waves of pleasure, still buried inside him, and Altaïr heard his own voice giving soft moans in response. Robert caressed his hair, his cheeks, pressing kisses to his throat and shoulders as they lay together, their bodies heaving as one.

"There," Robert whispered, kissing the rim of Altaïr's ear almost fondly. "You might never say it, but you will never forget it, my prize. You are defeated."

And Altaïr, humiliation mingling with his body's deep release, lay still.


End file.
